Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) (12 page)

Ryder nodded, though his expression was unreadable. "Well, that is how rumors get started. And the media spins them into facts."

"Great, so release some statement saying I'm not a killer and set them straight," I told him.

"Should I also let them know you're not dating Lorenzo?"

I felt my eyes narrow again at his mocking tone. "Ha. Ha. Very funny. If you're not the one accused of being a killer!"

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick out a little on the sides. It should have looked ridiculous, but somehow it added to the appeal of this new casual side of him. "Look, it's not that simple. Let me put it to you this way:  Somewhere in your hometown, a little old lady just happened to be settling in to watch television as the newscast came on. This is probably someone you've known for most of your life, watched you grow up, maybe even babysat you when you were young. Even though you are completely innocent, she is now convinced otherwise and won't stop her pursuit of justice until you are rotting in jail. All thanks to those blood-sucking, fear-mongering, media vultures," he finished, looking almost as worked up as I was now.

"I take it you've had a couple run-ins with the vultures before?"

He nodded. "Oh, yeah." Then he inhaled a deep breath through his nose and released it slowly through his mouth.

"Feel better?" I asked.

"You know?" He cocked his head to the side, a soft smile lighting his stubbled face. "I do, actually."

I took my own deep breath, his shared frustration having diffused some of my anger. "So, why aren't you in there making a mess with those guys?"

"The local police have taken over. It's not my case anymore." He pointed to his loosened tie. "I'm officially off the clock."

I paused. "So, you're not here in an official capacity."

He cocked his head at me. "I suppose not."

"Which means you can talk to me about the case unofficially?"

"Unofficially? Yes," he decided.

I gestured behind myself. "So what are they looking for?"

"My best guess? Whatever poisoned the powdered drink mix."

"So it was the DynoDrink that killed him?"

Ryder nodded. "Ingested about thirty minutes before he died."

Score one for Britton. Apparently she wasn't as dumb as she looked. "So, why are the police searching Britton's stuff? She's the one who told me about the powder. I doubt very seriously she'd implicate herself in a murder."

Agent Ryder arched a brow. "I've been in this line of work for a while. People do what they must to survive." His eyes shifted to the floor. "They have probable cause, or the judge wouldn't have issued a warrant. I read in the file that the penthouse was one of the few areas without surveillance cameras. I'd imagine that's why they started there."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Ryder's phone picked that moment to ring in his pocket.

Glancing at the number, he mumbled, "My boss. I probably should take this," before turning his back to me and answering. I noticed he straightened his tie as he did so. Back to official mode.

I pushed the down arrow as he answered his call and entered the elevator, digesting what he'd just told me. The drink was poisoned in the penthouse. The only place without cameras. I ran the mental list of people who serviced the penthouse and might know what happened that day. One name popped to the top. Ellie Lopez, Tate's mom. I just had to figure out a way through the media circus to find her.

Service elevator!

I pushed on the third floor button before it was too late, jumped out of the elevator, and scurried down the hall toward the service elevator at the end. When the doors opened, two of the housekeeping staff stood inside, blocking my way.

A portly older woman pushed the down arrow repeatedly, as her taller counterpart swatted at me through the opening.

"Move back. This isn't the elevator you're looking for."

I shoved my hand between the doors as they started to close. "Yes, it is. My name is Tessie King, and I'm trying to get to the employee lounge to find Ellie Lopez."

The older woman's eyes rounded, and she yanked on the taller woman's sleeve until she bent down. She whispered something, but the only word I could make out was "killer."

I rolled my eyes.

"I did
not
kill my father. And, technically, I'm your boss right now, so don't push it."

She dropped her arms to her sides and stood tall, her eyes still wide. The other woman finally spoke.

"Ellie's on this floor right now." Her hand shot out, pointing at a cleaning cart a few rooms down. "That's her stuff, there."

"Thank you, ladies." I removed my hand from the doors and let them close, but not before hearing the older woman squealing about seeing a real live murderer.

I hated that Agent Ryder was right.

I walked to the cart and peered into the room with the door propped open. "Mrs. Lopez?"

"Yes?" A toilet lid clanged shut, the bathroom door swung open, and out stepped all five feet, one hundred pounds of Ellie Lopez. She was tiny, but I knew for a fact that she did more work than two people twice her size. Her dark hair, shot with streaks of grey, was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her bright blue uniform neatly pressed with a sharp crease running down the front of the slacks. A smile consumed her entire face. "Miss Tess!" She peeled off her rubber gloves and enveloped me in a hug. "Why haven't you come to see me sooner?"

Guilt instantly struck. "Well, it's been kind of a whirlwind since I got here."

She grabbed my shoulders, her face falling somber. "I'm so very sorry about your papá. He was a great man. I owe him so much," she said in heavily accented English. While Tate had grown up in Tahoe, Ellie's roots were in Mexico and, despite the fact she'd been in the country for over twenty years, her voice still held that lilting rhythm from south of the border.

I shook my head. "No, you don't. You're like family."

"You are too sweet." Tears welled in her eyes, but the smile returned to her face.

"Do you have a few minutes?" I asked, gesturing toward the chairs in the room.

"Always, for you."

I sat down across from her and released a heavy sigh. "You take care of the penthouse, right?"

"For most of my career." Her head cocked to the side, brow pinched in confusion.

"Were you working the day my dad…" I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

Ellie grabbed my hand in hers. "Sí, I was there that day."

"Did you know about his latest health drink kick?"

Shaking her head, she giggled. "Of course. Everybody knew. He said he had to be getting in shape to keep up with Britton. He mixed that drink every morning before he and Britton went down to work out and every night before he went to bed."

"Okay," I thought aloud. "If he had one before he went to bed, and was fine, then someone had to mess with the drink powder after that. Or first thing in the morning."

"Wait," Ellie picked up a room service menu and fanned herself, her face flushing pink. "Something was wrong with the drink powder?"

I nodded. "Was there anything suspicious that morning? Anyone come up there who wouldn't normally? Anything out of place?"

"Mr. King locked the penthouse down tighter than Fort Knox at night. I was let in about seven that morning to tidy up, just like always. There was nothing odd when I left at nine."

"You're sure?"

Her head bobbed, eyes wide, her gaze never leaving mine.

That cut the time frame for someone tampering with the powder to between nine and eleven that morning. My phone chirped to life, giving me no time to ponder that thought.

I pulled it from my pocket and showed Ellie the screen sporting Tate's smiling face. "Your son."

She patted my shoulder, snapped her gloves back on, and disappeared back into the bathroom.

"Hey, you," I answered.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Go?" I asked, my brain searching for the "where" that went with that.

"To the Deep Blue," Tate squealed. "Honey, there are some half-dressed men over there who aren't going to ogle themselves!"

Oh boy.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Luckily Alfie had, in fact, found a way to eradicate the media from the Royal Palace grounds. Probably with a few well placed threats. And security escorts. Possibly a taser or two. Either way, the hallway outside my room was now thankfully clear, leaving me free to ditch my ski clothes, speed through a quick bite to eat from room service, and blast through the fastest shower routine of my life. I'd just dressed and put on my finishing touches of mascara and lip gloss when a noise in the hall caught my attention.

Glancing through the peephole, I saw Tate grinning from ear to ear, struggling with an armload of garment bags.

Opening the door wide, I stood back as he wedged himself and his cargo through sideways. Tate was impeccably groomed, dressed in black skinny pants (well, as skinny as pants got on Tate's generous frame), a charcoal vest, bright purple paisley dress shirt and matching tie. He appeared about twenty pounds lighter, so I was willing to bet he had on some sort of man-Spanx as well.

"Hey, girl," he crooned, laying the bags out carefully on my couch.

I merely raised a brow and nodded toward them. His eyes widened, a guilty expression morphing his perfectly plucked, shaved, and exfoliated face. In our history together, this look has never been good. Tate was a multi-faceted individual, but guilt was rarely allowed in his repertoire.

"Before you freak out," he hedged, hands splayed toward me.

Those words? Also, not a good sign.

"All of these can be returned to the casino boutique." He waved one outstretched hand over the bags while pensively sliding the other down his side, framing his ensemble.

I rubbed my temple, very happy there was alcohol in my near future. "What is all this?"

"Well, while you are, indeed, making a fashion statement…" He paused, scanning me with his critical eye.

"What?" I asked, looking down at my little black dress. While the conservative cut wasn't exactly going to turn any heads at a club, it was about the only option I had for going out. I hadn't exactly packed for a night on the town when I'd left home.

Tate shook his head, then gripped my shoulders with both hands, face sinking into a pity pucker. "Unfortunately, the only statement your fashion is making is, 'hell, no.'  Seriously, who wears funeral clothes to a party?"

I considered objecting, but the man did have a point. Instead, I watched him unzip the bags and gently drape each garment over the back of the sofa. Seven dresses total, each amazing, beautiful, stunning even, in different ways.

But so not me.

The first was a white beaded, strapless dress with barely enough material in the skirt to cover the essentials. The second was a blood red floor length evening gown with a slit up the side that wouldn't allow for any privacy. I couldn't help but turn to him and roll my eyes.

"What? It's beautiful."

I nodded in agreement. "For a black tie event and someone with an aversion to panties. I love my panties."

"Touché," he mumbled.

The third dress was gorgeous with dark blue fabric, modest skirt, and cute halter that tied behind the neck. Then I lifted the hanger, and it slid into two pieces. The dress was perfect for a cardio whore addicted to abdominal workouts. Britton would look fabulous in it, but so not me. Not that my stomach was bad, I just didn't much care to display it for all to see.

I discounted the next three dresses on their neon colors alone, which left me with the last dress. Tiny capped sleeves gave way to a fairly low scooped neck, and blue-gray satin that made me smile.

Tate bounced up and down, clapping. "That's the one I figured you'd choose. It actually has you written all over it." He reached in the bottom of the bag, pulling out shoes. Not just any shoes, mind you.
Actual
Christian Louboutins. (So different from the Krisjon Louisbitton version from China that I owned.) 

"Size seven, right?" Tate asked.

I squealed like a little girl. Then I glanced at the tag on the dress, sporting a huge designer name with a price to match, and reality slapped me in the face. "I can't afford this. You'll have to send them all back."

"The beauty of this proverbial buffet of clothing is you don't have to pay a dime. All I did was drop your name, and they said I could take whatever I thought you'd like."

"They just let you take all of this?"

"Well, I was escorted by a security guard, but he was cute. Win-win. Just send back what you don't like, and keep what you want, free of charge." He pulled out a receipt with all of the clothing listed, all zeroed out with a place for me to sign. "Evidently, ownership has some major perks."

I flopped on the end of my bed with the silky dress draped across me, staring at the Louboutins Tate still proudly displayed.

He carried the shoes over, tugged me into a sitting position, and sat next to me. "Just wear the outfit for tonight. You can take it back in the morning."

Those words actually made sense and filtered past my mother's long-ago threats of burning anything I brought home from the boutique. It wasn't like I'd be the first woman to ever return a dress after the party she'd bought it for. I'd just make sure I didn't spill anything on it, right?

He enveloped me in a hug and muttered into my hair, "You deserve to be pampered. Let's just pretend we are Cinderella and Prince Charming for the night. I'll even return my clothes tomorrow, if it will make you feel better."

Tilting my head back, I smiled up at him. "I'm pretty sure Cindi and The Charmer wouldn't go watch naked men shake their naughty bits, but I get what you're saying." The distant look in his eyes told me he was either pondering my words or picturing the naked men dancing.

"But," I told him, "if you're going to pull off Prince Charming, you'll have to brush up on your straight guy act."

His spine stiffened, eyes narrowing into a sultry gaze. With a subtle nod of the head, he whispered, "'Sup?"